


Born to Die

by Tiffari



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiffari/pseuds/Tiffari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two more words. That's all that he needs; that's all that Sam needs. Dean has everyone's full attention, probably the attention of an entire nation, and he might waver under all of it if not for his resolve that this is right—that this is what has to happen. Because this is the plan. This has always been the plan. "I volunteer."</p>
<p>Hunger Games AU. [Eventual] Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that has been milling around in my head for a few weeks now. A brilliant anon on Tumblr brought it up, and I thought, hey, why not try to combine these two amazing fandoms? When I started to plan this out, I realized why. It's really, really difficult. But I think that it works, for the most part.
> 
> This is going to be a long-term project with a whole bunch of chapters. I don't know how many yet, but it's probably going to end up being book-length. There will be Destiel. Cas won't show up for a few more chapters, but I promise that he will! Other pairings will be included at some point, and I'll include a full list when I've made a solid decision about them. This is rated Mature for later chapters. It might get bumped to explicit later; I haven't decided yet.
> 
> Also, I would really like to thank Anna, Brownie, and Kaileigh for taking the time to read this and give me feedback and support when I didn't have the confidence to keep going. You guys are amazing.

Dean has never been able to sleep before a reaping. Maybe when he was five or six—when he didn't understand what it meant, didn't feel the gravity of the fact that he might never again see the girl with the beautiful smile down at the bakery or the kind-eyed boy who always slipped him berries at the Hub. Dean doesn't know when reality began to sink in, but he doesn't remember a pre-reaping night that he didn't spend wide awake on his lumpy mattress, tense, waiting.

Quietly, careful to keep from waking Sam, Dean slips out of bed. The floorboards creak and groan under his bare feet, and he pauses, almost holding his breath, but he doesn't need to. Sam doesn't so much as stir. All that's visible is his brown mop of hair, sticking out in every possible direction as the rest of his body is huddled peacefully beneath the thick green blanket that Bobby gave them last month. Dean cracks a smile; he's glad that Sam doesn't feel the same unease that he does. If he can't do anything else, at least he can keep the weight off of his little brother.

The stairs groan out similar protests as he makes his way downstairs. It wouldn't be so noticeable if there were any other noise, but there's only silence. Most days, there would be plenty of people up and about around sunrise, but not today. Not on reaping day. Those who can sleep are taking advantage of the day off, and those who can't are skulking around, crawling out of their skin and sick to their stomachs. Their empty, grumbling stomachs.

Shutting the door behind him, Dean breathes in the crisp morning air, tasting the signature trace of coal dust. The sun is peeking over the treeline, casting a pink-and-yellow haze over what suddenly seems like a ghost town. He doesn't really know why he's wandering around; there isn't anything for him to do but kick some rocks down the road, hands shoved into the pockets of his ill-fitting pants. There are likely people doing business at the Hub; that joint never totally shuts down. But he doesn't want to show up there, especially since he doesn't have anything to trade. Dean can only stand getting handouts for so long. He's no idiot; he knows that people feel sorry for him and Sam, and they can't afford to say no to a few extra ounces of squirrel meat or a “dropped” scrap of bread. He supposes that he should be grateful, and part of him is. The other part of him wants to put a fist through the face of every person who thinks that he needs pity. If it weren't for Sam, he might actually do it.

For the time being, though, he knows that he needs to remain in the good graces of their neighbors. What he gets from them isn't always free. Freelancing for pay isn't technically legal, but that rarely stops anyone from doing what needs to be done. Got a leaky roof? Dean'll fix it. Dry rot in the walls? Dean can patch it up. Of course, there are other carpenters and handymen, but Dean will do it for cheap. Usually, that wouldn't make him real sympathetic to the other handymen, but there's that pity again. They can't bring themselves to hold it against him, not when he's parentless, jobless, and trying to take care of a thirteen-year-old brother on his own. Just thinking about it makes him bristle.

There's always the tesserae, though. It's his one means of income that doesn't rely on someone else's good humor. It's what makes him feel like he might be doing his job, at least a little. It's something that he'll never let Sam touch—not ever. Only over his cold, dead body.

Eighteen times. His name's in eighteen times. Dean tries to keep his mind off of it; sometimes, he even goes so far as to pretend that he doesn't know, that he lost count a long time ago. But no one ever loses count. No one ever forgets. There are others who are worse off—some who have their names in thirty or forty times. They're not getting any sleep, either.

Blowing out a deep breath, Dean runs his hands through his hair. It's getting a little long and he makes a mental note to take care of that later, after the reaping. When his hair gets long, it doesn't look all nice and girly like Sam's; it gets stringy and matted, and Dean supposes that he shouldn't care too much about his appearance, but he's not popular with the ladies for nothing. It doesn't matter on reaping day, though. He doesn't trust his hands to stay steady enough to give a clean cut. More likely than not, he'd slip and give himself a gash in the side of his head, and wouldn't that be a pretty sight? Blood dripping down the side of his face, seeping into his clothes, his _best_ clothes, as the cameras roll. That'd be something.

“Hey, Dean.”

Speaking of stringy, matted hair... “'Morning, Garth.”

The knob at the end of Garth's nose has turned bright red; it's probably the first part of him that gets cold, what with the way that it sticks out that far from his face. Garth's a gawky kid and he knows how to push Dean's buttons, but Dean can't seem to hold it against him. Not for long, anyway. Garth's the kind of guy that grows on people. District 12 has something of an optimism deficit, and Garth's positivity could be infectious. Sometimes. Other times, nobody could deny that he could act like a grade-a moron.

Garth shoves his hands into his pockets and leans back against the side of the house and it takes a whole lot of self-control for Dean to keep himself from snorting. Despite his best efforts, Garth is incapable of looking cool. He's all stringy hair and gangly limbs and clothes that are at least four sizes too large. “Can't sleep either, huh?”

“Dude, your name's in there, what, three times?”

Garth looks stricken and Dean realizes that the words came out sharper than he intended. “Five. I had to take out tesserae for me and my mom this year.”

Dean swallows hard. He knows that it's hard for everyone. He knows that. “That's... Sorry, man. I'm just edgy today.”

“Does someone need a hug?” Garth's arms are spread wide and—is he _pouting_? Dean's pretty sure that he looks as disgusted as he feels. Still, he can't help but be impressed by how quickly Garth can bounce back to his usual annoying self.

Backing away, Dean shakes his head. “No.  _Not_ cool.”

But Garth keeps advancing and it's not long before he has his gangly arms wrapped around Dean's body. Dean gives him about ten seconds before swatting him away. “Personal boundaries, Garth. Personal boundaries.”

“Everyone says that I give the best hugs around.”

“ _No one_ says that.”

“Yeah they do.” Garth's all smiles and Dean's actually inclined to believe him.

The silence that follows is semi-comfortable. Dean's always been partial to silence. It gives him time to think—to plan ten steps ahead of everyone else. No matter what happens, he has a plan for it. He probably has five plans for any given situation. They're not all good plans, but they're better than nothing. Knowing that he's prepared gives him a sense of security that, albeit frail, gives him enough peace of mind to get some rest when he needs it.

And yet, he finds himself breaking the silence, because sometimes it hurts to be alone with his thoughts. “You ever think about what you'd do if your name got pulled?”

“Probably die.”

Garth says it with such levity that Dean's a bit dumbstruck. It's truth, and everyone knows it. Twenty-four go in, one comes out. It's engraved into the mind of every man, woman, and child. But nobody talks about it like that. Nobody's that open. Nobody's that accepting. Leave it to Garth to break that norm, too.

“What?”

Garth shrugs, hands back in his pockets. “It's the truth. I mean, I'm scrappy and charming”—Dean can't keep himself from snorting this time—“and I like to think that I wouldn't be the first one taken out, but I'm not cut out for that kind of thing. I'm happy sticking around here, stealing food, busting lips, dealing out justice the Garth way.”

“Most peoples' lips would bust your fist.”

They both laugh at that; Garth doesn't even bother denying it. “Yeah, well, I'm better at taking care of people, y'know?” Dean gets that, perhaps better than anyone. “What about you?”

Dean knew that the question had to be asked. He's the one who brought it up, so he can't be upset about it. There are a million different answers. He could say that he intentionally got into fights to keep his senses sharp. He could say that he practiced knife techniques almost every day so that he'd be ready if his ticket was ever up. He could say that he'd had more than one late-night conversation with Missouri about taking care of Sam if anything ever happened to him. He could say so much.

So he lies.

“Never thought about it.”

Miraculously, Garth believes him. Or, if he doesn't believe him, he doesn't ask any questions. He just nods, kicking at a small clump of weeds, suddenly too somber for Dean's taste. “If anyone around here could win, Dean, it'd be you.”

Dean freezes, the knots in his gut suddenly unraveling and transforming into icy tendrils, reaching up and wrapping around his chest, squeezing the breath right out of him. Maybe he should feel flattered, or at least encouraged, but all that he feels is numb. Not a complete numbness, but the kind of numbness that lingers after an arm's been slept on all night—all pins and needles and shakiness. Painful helplessness. That's the feeling, and he wants to get rid of it as quickly as possible. “Dude, why're we even talking about this? We should be making ourselves pretty.”

“No need.” Garth runs a hand through his hair before giving his head a sickeningly dramatic toss. “I'm always pretty.”

Resisting the urge to puke, Dean simply mimes the act. “I don't know why I talk to you.”

“It's probably the charisma.”

At least the kid has confidence. Garth'll never get reaped, anyway. The odds are in his favor, as they  _ever_ will be. As annoying as he is, it's hard to imagine the Seam without him. After a moment's hesitation, another moment of semi-comfortable silence, Dean reaches out and punches Garth in his bony shoulder, only forceful enough that Garth has to take a step back to keep his balance. “Go home, Garth.”

It isn't until Garth is about to duck around the corner of the house at the road's curve that Dean shouts out, “And give your mom a hug.”

He might've just woken half of the street, but hey, some things are important. People can forget those things—neglect them—for most of the year, but, on reaping day, everyone does everything that they can to make sure that things are as good as they can be. They forget grudges, ignore injuries, and they hug their loved ones. Because they never know how much time they have left.

As the sound of creaking doors and early-morning greetings begin to echo down the street, Dean ducks back inside, because he has a plan. There's a small chunk of dog meat tucked away in the kitchen, and he managed to barter for a ball of goat cheese and a handful of berries the evening before. He didn't tell Sam; surprises are always better, especially on reaping day.

Especially if it could be the last time.

“Rise and shine, Sammy!”

—

Nothing's better than a full stomach, but the food isn't settling well. Dean's guts are in knots, twisting onto themselves, full of rocks and thorns and maybe even knives. Every year, he thinks that it'll get better, that he might get used to the dread, but it only gets worse. Last year was bad; it was Sam's first year, and Dean put on his best smile along with his best shirt even though the fear was clawing at his insides, turning him into quivering, pulpy mush. This year, it's all knives and claws again, but there's also a drill boring into his skull, liquifying his brain. He can only imagine what next year will be like.

Sam's buttoning up his shirt, one of Dean's hand-me-downs. It's a bright shade of blue, like the sky at midday. It's a popular color in the Seam; after hours down in the mines, there's nothing as refreshing as the clear brilliance of the sky and the rush of clean air sweeping into the lungs. At least, that's what Dean's heard. He hasn't worked down there yet, not officially, but it's not long until he'll don a hardhat like the rest of them. Just one more year, then graduation, and Dean would be lying if he said that he's sad about it. School's never been much of a friend, and there's no love lost there. Being smart is Sam's thing. Sam's impressive brain is what's going to keep him out of the mines. Dean has no problem with his own lungs shriveling up down there in the dark, but Sam wants to be a teacher, so that's what's gonna happen.

“Don't forget to tuck your shirt in. You look like you're swimming in it.” But it won't be that way for much longer. Sam's small and twiggy, but Dean has a feeling that he'll hit a growth spurt soon and he'll shoot straight up. Hand-me-downs aren't going to cut it then. Hopefully, Dean will be making enough money at that point to keep the kid clothed.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he tucks the shirt into his tan slacks anyway. “You never tuck your shirt in.”

It's true. Dean's white collared shirt is decidedly untucked, and his threadbare, patched-up jacket is far from fancy. He has no reason to impress anyone. He almost never does. “That's because it's for lame kids with girly hair who try too hard.”

“Jerk,” Sam mutters.

Dean bumps Sam's shoulder with his elbow, giving him a good-natured shove. “Bitch.”

They leave the house with only a few minutes to spare. Dean's never been one for being punctual, but nobody's late to the reaping. Nobody. Plenty of people straggle in at the last minute, though, and Dean and Sam find themselves practically surrounded by other kids, families, young and old, short and tall, skinny and stocky, a steady, silent river of dresses and buttoned shirts and well-groomed brown hair. As they get up to the square, that river opens to a sea—a buzzing mass of boys and girls giving one last hug to their parents, getting one last word of advice from older siblings. And then silence, lining up, checking in. No one talks after that. Everyone's holding in a collective breath.

Sam's hand curls around Dean's forearm and Dean freezes, fighting down the lump in his throat. “Hey, Dean?”

That damn lump is trying to turn him into a mute. “Yeah, Sammy?”

When Sam smiles, Dean can't help but feel a little lighter—because if Sam can smile, then things can't be  _that_ bad. Like the blue sky after a black, dusty morning. “I'll cook dinner tonight, okay?”

And Dean laughs. He laughs because his nerves are fried and his chest burns and, yeah, leave it to Sam to say  _that_ right before they get to the table, right before they have to split up—Sam to the back with the younger kids and Dean to the front with the older. Because Sam feels it too; he feels the tension, the anxiety, the dread. Dean wishes that he didn't, but he does. But they always make it through fine. They always go home and eat dinner together, laughing, drunk on the sudden, dizzying lack of worry. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Dean flashes his best, cockiest smile to the blonde woman who pricks his finger, noting the flush that infuses her cheeks as she takes the blood sample and sends him through. Stronger women have had more embarrassing reactions. He stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, meandering over to the assigned area. He slips in behind the eighteen-year-olds, most of whom are somber and steely-faced. It's their last year. If they clear this hurdle, they're in the clear. They know that they're close,  _so_ close, but they can't afford to breathe until the reaping's over. Dean knows that he won't be able to breathe until the night after Sam's last reaping. Five left. Five. Damn.

The entirety of District 12's population squeezes into the square, and Dean grunts as someone from behind bumps into him and then immediately stammers out an apology. He hates being that close to so many people, but it would be stupid to think that anything about the ordeal could be comfortable. Nope, gotta dress everyone up, stick needles in their fingers, and then cram them in the same area where they have to stare at themselves on giant screens while they listen to long speeches that are the same every year. Panem this, Capitol that, District 13, war, death, honor, glory. He would probably be able to recite them by this point if he paid closer attention.

It's five minutes to two, right on the dot, and the Mayor steps out—flashing his oversized teeth and waving with a meaty hand. He takes the first seat, followed closely by a much smaller man dressed as flashily as ever in a blood-red suit that shimmers when struck by sunlight. District 12's escort and the Capitol's gift to all of Panem, Crowley. Dean can only imagine how much Crowley hates being stuck with the one district that no one takes seriously; in fact, thinking about it is what usually gets Dean through the reaping without losing his mind entirely. Crowley's big, round head is already so inflated, it probably wouldn't take much for it to explode. A few witty, well-timed insults should do the trick.

Then Bobby takes the last seat, looking unsteady. Probably drunk. He usually is on reaping day. Dean didn't think that his chest could get any tighter, but it could, apparently. It's been two weeks since he last saw Bobby. Previous victors aren't supposed to visit the Seam. Why should they? They've got everything that they need. But District 12 doesn't have much of a precedent for how a victor should act, so Bobby does what he can to see them. The big, empty house and the fancy food doesn't suit him, but he'll never argue with the booze—although he sneaks what he can to Ellen's bar, where she sells it to the Peacekeepers, and they both have a big laugh about it later.

Bobby wanted to move them in after their dad died, but that wasn't  _seemly_ . They aren't related—not by blood, and that's what matters. So they moved in with Missouri and they get to see Bobby a few times a month, if they're lucky. And they always get to see him up there on reaping day, slumping in his chair, looking almost stricken. Sometimes, he looks for Dean in the crowd, but not today. Based on the way that he's squinting against the sun, Dean guesses that he's hungover, not drunk after all. Very little surprises Dean, but  _that_ ... That's surprising.

It's two o' clock and the mayor's up at the microphone, speaking too loudly, sending nervous glances toward the cameras. No matter how many times he gives the same speech, he continues to get tripped up by the cameras. Sure, there's a lot of material to cover, and all of Panem is watching, but nobody cares about him. They're watching for the spectacle, not to listen  _again_ to the natural disasters and the wars that lead up to the near-destruction of the world, or to the way that Panem emerged like a diamond from pressurized coal. Everyone already knew the story of the uprising—how the districts banded together against the Capitol and how, after so much death and destruction, twelve of them were brought to their knees while the thirteenth was wiped off of the face of the planet. And no one would ever forget how that led to the Treaty of Treason and, more importantly, the Hunger Games.

Dean almost scoffs as the mayor adds that “it is a time for both repentance and thanks.” Yeah, because it's definitely not a time to feel exploited or resentful. It's not a time to hate the people that herd them into the square like cattle so that they can lead two of them away to their deaths. No, it's not a time for anger. It's a time for  _thanks_ .

After the mayor lists off Bobby and some dead guy as District 12's past victors, he finally returns to his seat, looking pleased as punch. Dean's eyes are locked on the glass bowl that holds eighteen slips of paper with his name printed on them. There are thousands of slips in there, but eighteen still seems staggering. It only takes one, and he's got  _eighteen_ .

Crowley's up now, nearly blinding in that ridiculous suit, and his eyebrows are raised. The derision in his expression would likely be missed by most people if it wasn't for the giant screens broadcasting a close-up of his face. “Well, that was...enlightening.” And Dean almost likes him then. “I suppose that it's time to wish you all a  _very_ happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in  _your_ favor. And if they aren't...” He trails off with a shrug, almost gliding over to the girls' bowl. The girl always gets picked first, in a show of what the Capitol wants to be taken as  _chivalry_ .

To add to the show, Crowley slowly dips his hand into the bowl, swirling the slips of paper around his fingers before reaching halfway into the pile and retrieving one crisp, white rectangle. Then he's back, front and center, and he clears his throat before reciting in his clearest voice, “Joanna Harvelle.”

Dean harshly sucks in the stale, too-warm air. He doesn't know when his head snapped to the right, when he started to desperately pan the crowd for the girl's small, blonde head, but he sees her step out from a cluster of thirteen-year-olds with pained, but obviously relieved, looks on their mousy little faces. He knows that it's got to be taking every ounce of self-control for Ellen to keep from crying out—from darting out from the crowd and grabbing hold of her little girl, screaming death threats to anyone who had the gall to try dragging her away. But she's quiet, somewhere in the crowd, and Jo's walking up to the stage with her chin raised, handfuls of her yellow dress held in her clenched fists. She doesn't look at Crowley as he throws an arm around her shoulders and presents her to the rest of Panem; she just keeps staring straight ahead. Jo's a strong kid. Dean tells himself that she has a chance for survival, mostly because that's the only thing that will give him even an ounce of comfort. It's  _Jo_ , and it's too much to think of watching someone slitting her throat in the arena. She's strong, and she's got Bobby. She'll be okay.  _She'll be okay_ .

Crowley's hand's in the boys' bowl now, and he doesn't use as much flourish as he pulls out a slip from the bottom of the bowl. The rasp of paper sliding against paper echoes over the square before Crowley places his lips far too close to the microphone and announces the second tribute.

“Samuel Winchester.”

Nah. Nah, Dean has to have heard that incorrectly. Sam's name's in there twice. Two slips in thousands. There's no way that his name got picked. It's time to get his ears cleaned, because it can't be Sam. His mind's playing tricks on him. More than once, he's woken up in the middle of the night, sweating and shaking, with this exact moment burning in the back of his eyes, ringing in his ears.  _Samuel Winchester_ , echoing from speakers, from the hallway, from a mineshaft. What he just heard was a reverberation. It was his imagination.

But the cameras are focusing on the kids toward the back and Dean turns around, unable to do more than watch helplessly as the lines dissolve and the sea parts—smaller then larger bodies moving stoically aside to make way for a lanky boy with an all-too familiar mop of brown hair. His head is held just as high as Jo's, but the panic in his eyes is unmistakable. Then it begins to sink in. Then Dean starts to understand. And his feet are carrying him toward Sam before he can process any of it.

“Sam! _Sammy_!”

A peacekeeper's placing a gloved hand on Sam's shoulder to guide him up to the stage and Dean's fighting through the crowd, which doesn't part as easily for him as it did for his kid brother. The kid brother who's turning, searching for him, pleading with his eyes, but Dean doesn't have time to translate that look. Dean doesn't  _want_ to translate that look, because if Sam wants him to accept this, he's going to be sorely disappointed. It's the end of the line when the peacekeeper shoves Sam forward, putting an end to the stalling, and, subsequently, to Dean's composure.

He probably knocks over a kid or two as he makes a final push through the throng, but he doesn't care. There's a line of peacekeepers ready for him, prepared to throw him back in line—or, more plausibly, to drag him off to some detainment room where they would probably have to kill him, because there's no way in hell that he's going to let this happen. Dean's strong, but there are more of them and they're taller and they have guns. He knows how to fight, but he's unfocused and he only manages one well-placed punch before they have him on his knees. Breathing's impossible and he tastes blood. The world is swirling into twisted shapes and muddled colors, but he knows that Sam's getting close; maybe he has one foot on the steps already, greeted by Crowley's open arms and predatory grin.

Even though ice has replaced the air in his lungs, he has enough left to manage one more shout. Two more words. That's all that he needs; that's all that  _Sam_ needs. “I volunteer!”

Aside from the low ringing from the microphone, there's dead silence as the world comes back into focus. Nobody so much as twitches; Dean has everyone's full attention, probably the attention of an entire nation, and he might waver under all of it if not for his resolve that this is right—that this is what has to happen. Because this is the plan. This has always been the plan.

“I said that I volunteer,” he repeats, because everyone looks so dumbstruck and it's getting under his skin. “I'll do it. I'll go in his place.”

Although reluctant, the peacekeepers haul him to his feet, and Dean's actually grateful for their grip on his arms, because he's wobbly and the last thing that he needs to do now is fall on his face. When Sam breaks free and runs back toward him, shouting his name along with a string of protests, Dean's sure that his legs are going to give out. But they don't. They don't, because he's got to be strong. He can't volunteer and then go all soft. No matter what, he's got to stick to his guns, because weakness is unacceptable now. Weakness will get him killed.

So he squares his jaw and tells Sam that it'll be okay as they're dragged off in separate directions. He seems to be telling a lot of lies today. Crowley's face is inscrutable as Dean hauls himself up the stairs, but he pulls him over to the microphone all the same.

“Can't say that anyone was expecting a volunteer today. District 12's first, if memory serves.” The mayor nods in affirmation and Dean can't bring himself to look at Bobby. “Care to tell us your name?”

No, Dean doesn't  _care_ to tell anyone his name. He's not even sure that he can speak, but he doesn't have much of a choice, so tries to push down the boulder in his throat. “Dean Winchester.” He practically croaks the words, but it's good enough.

“Then that strapping young lad was your brother, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Yeah, because there's no other reason why Dean would be up there, trying not to shake, trying to keep from showing them that he hates this, that his heart's in his foot and he wants to lose his breakfast all over the stage.

Mercifully, Crowley turns his attention back to the crowd, and at least that pressure's off. Dean really doesn't think that he could talk more if he tried his hardest. “Well, then. Let's have a round of applause for District 12's first-ever volunteer, shall we?”

No one claps, and that's fine; Dean didn't expect applause. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want recognition and he sure as hell doesn't want any more attention. People are still stunned, and maybe a few of them are even sad to see him go. Almost everyone in the Seam knows him—or, at the very least, knows of him. They've all helped each other out at some point, and now they're standing there and everyone knows that he's not coming back. Maybe it's upsetting for the moment, but they'll forget all about him in a few months.

Then something starts to happen. Dean doesn't know what it is at first, and he doesn't know why, but one person moves, a few more follow, and then everyone is moving in unison. They raise the three middle fingers of their left hands to their lips, then extend them in the air in a gesture that Dean's only seen after someone important died. It's a gesture of affection—of gratitude and reverence. Of things that Dean doesn't deserve. But they're doing it. District 12's entire population, standing there with their hands held out toward  _him_ . It's surreal and Dean strains to fight the tears that are springing to his eyes. Before his vision blurs, he catches a glimpse of Garth's face in the crowd, and he's almost completely certain that the scrawny idiot started all of this.

The overwhelming swell of the moment breaks before it can crest when the mayor begins to recite the Treaty of Treason, which is probably a direct attempt to redirect Panem's attention. It doesn't take long, but it's effective. Dean's resumed control of his body and is somehow able to keep himself from breaking apart into unsightly chunks as he's asked to shake hands with Jo. Her hand is small and warm and far steadier than his. Their gazes lock for a moment, and he knows that they're thinking the same thing. Even if they fight their hardest, they can't both come back. They won't be all right.

It isn't until the anthem stops playing and they get marched through the entrance of the Justice Building that Dean begins to understand what he's walking toward. His body has been carrying him forward like a machine, programmed with an objective, a mission. Now his mind is catching up, and it feels like lightning in his brain, traveling to his muscles, trying to lock them up—trying to get him to balk. They can't both come back, and the odds say that neither of them will. The doors close behind them and Dean realizes that he'll never see the square again.

Dean always has a plan. This one sucks.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean makes a point to avoid Bobby's gaze as he's led through the hallways—wide, off-white halls with soaring arches and red tapestries—and then into a room where he's left alone. It isn't until the Peacekeepers shut the door that the reality of the situation begins to sink in. Dean doesn't want to think about it, but he has to. There's nothing else to do in the room, which is larger than Missouri's entire house. Just thinking. He sinks into one of the couches and barely notices the soft, velvety material that's likely worth more than he'll make in a year once he starts working in the mines.  _ If _ he starts working in the mines. It's not likely. Not anymore.

It takes him a few moments to realize that he's shaking. Not with the slight tremors that come along with being anxious or the rapid jitters that accompany being insufficiently clothed during a bitter winter night, but really  _ shaking— _ from his core, from his toes to his fingers, uncontrollably. He covers his head with his hands and takes a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure. It's a losing battle. Year after year, every last citizen of Panem watches the Games. Even if they despise it, even if it terrifies them, they watch. Dean knew what he was getting himself into, but it's finally hitting him with the force of an express train.

He has to stop dwelling on it, though, because the door is opening and Sam is running through it, and then he's throwing his arms around Dean's waist. Dean has to take a step back, thrown off-balance by the ferocity of the hug, but his arms instinctively wrap around Sam, holding him as tightly as physically possible. Missouri is standing in the doorway; she's loathe to ruin the moment and Dean's grateful for it. He's grateful for everything that she's done for the two of them, and he suddenly regrets never telling her that. So he mouths it, knowing that it's not enough but at least it's  _ something _ , and she gives him a sad smile before disappearing around the corner. Part of Dean is prodding at him, telling him to call her back, to give her a hug and a proper goodbye, but he knows that he only has a few minutes, and he needs to spend them with Sam. Sam, who's shaking even more than Dean—who's been talking this whole time, even though it's obvious that Dean hasn't been listening.

“Sam. Sam, hey, calm down.” Dean doesn't know how, but he's managed to keep himself from falling apart. He keeps his arms around his younger brother as Sam stifles a sob in his shirt. “It's gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay.”

It's not. It's not, and they both know it. Dean's sick of telling lies, but he doesn't know what else to do. Is he supposed to tell the truth? Is he supposed to say that he knows that he won't be coming back—that these are their last moments together? Is he supposed to give Sam some long speech about taking care of himself, because he won't have his big brother around anymore? Is he supposed to tell this thirteen-year-old kid that he's going to be alone from now on, so he had better get used to it? Honestly, Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to do or say, so he keeps on with the lies, perhaps with the hope that they might have a sliver of truth in there somewhere.

“Dean, you should've just let me go.” Sam pulls back just enough for Dean to get a full view of his tear-stained face, and Dean can feel his heart constrict so tightly in his chest, it's a miracle that it doesn't implode right then and there. “I'm the one who got picked. You should've just let me go.”

“No way in hell, Sammy.” There's no way that he would ever let Sam do this. And no, he doesn't want to do this, either, but if he could go back to the reaping a million times, if he had the choice a million times, he would make the same one over and over again. He would always volunteer for Sam, no matter what. Even though he knows that he won't be coming back. Even though he knows that Sam has to stick it out without him, he would _always_ make the same choice. Because Sam has a chance now; he has a chance to finish school, to graduate, to become a teacher, to meet a nice girl, to get married, to have a family, to die peacefully, knowing that he lived a full and happy life. The world's better with Sam in it; the world can do without Dean. “It's better this way, okay?”

Sam shakes his head, arms dropping to his sides. “No.  _ No _ , Dean, it's not better. How is this better?”

“Because I have a chance of winning, Sam.” This has got to be Dean's best lie yet. He doesn't have a chance. He doesn't have a chance in hell, but he's going to act like he does, because that's what Sam needs right now. Almost every year, the Games are won by one of the careers, and Dean doesn't think for a second that he has the skills necessary to beat all of them. But no matter how slim his chances—how impossible it will be to win—he's going to try. He's going to give it everything that he has, because he wants, _needs_ , to get back to Sam. Because he wants to see that thirteen-year-old boy grow up. Because Sam's all that he has. “And you don't. I mean, look at me, and look at you. You're all...reedy and scrawny. They'd pick you off in seconds.”

He says it teasingly, with a grin, with the intention of lightening the atmosphere—with the intention of making Sam smile. It doesn't work; the sadness and the fear never leave Sam's eyes, and Dean's grin falters almost immediately. When Sam speaks again, his voice is hardly more than a whisper. “I didn't ask you to do this for me, Dean.”

Dean pulls him into another hug, just as tight as the first. “You didn't have to, Sammy.”

They stay that way for a few long moments before Sam takes a step back, scrubbing at his face with his hands in an attempt to erase the tears, and Dean loves him even more for it. It's a lot easier for Dean to be strong—to keep the tears from falling—if Sam isn't falling apart in front of him. Because Dean wants to fall apart. He really does. But he knows that any sign of weakness will single him out as an easy target, and there will be an army of cameras waiting for him when he leaves the safety and seclusion of the posh—and now very comforting—room. While he doesn't think that he has any chance of surviving, he's not just going to roll over and die. He's not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing that he feels like he's being ripped into a thousand mangled, bloody pieces.

Even though he looks sick—face drawn, lips set into a thin line, skin pale—Sam seems to have found some solid ground. His eyes are dry and he's looking at Dean head-on, chin up, his clenched jaw giving his usually childlike face a decidedly masculine outline. Sam's going to grow up to be one hell of a guy. Dean wishes more than anything else in the world that he could be around to see it.

“I don't want you to worry about me, okay?” Dean doesn't know why he's talking. For some reason, he feels like he _needs_ to. Maybe because this will be his last chance. Maybe because, if he doesn't fill the silence, the cracks will begin widening and he might actually break into pieces. “I'll be fine.” He reaches out to ruffle Sam's hair and—yeah, the kid's gonna hit his growth spurt really soon, and he's gonna be one handsome son of a bitch, isn't he? “I'll be back before you know it, and if you haven't been focusing on your grades, I'll kick your ass.”

Sam almost smiles,  _ almost _ , and it's enough. His eyes are still puffy and bloodshot, but that little twitch—that little upward curve at the corner of his lips—brightens the whole room. That's all that Dean needs. He just needs Sam to smile. He needs Sam to keep on smiling because that's the whole point. That's the point of all of this.

“Dean, I...” Sam swallows hard, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to pull out what looks like a necklace. He holds it out to Dean, who responds by looking confused. “I want you to have this.”

The necklace—more of an amulet, really, now that Dean looks at it—slides from Sam's fingers to coil in Dean's palm. It's heavy, solid. Probably brass, from the look of it, and Dean has no idea where Sam would've gotten something like this. He runs his thumb over the strange-looking face and the mercifully dull horns. Looped through a ring at the top is a simple leather cord. It's simple and doesn't stand out, but Dean's attentive and he knows that he's never seen it before. He must look as confused as he feels, because Sam looks embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck before clearing his throat.

“I got that from Bobby a few years ago. It...was supposed to be a gift for dad. But then...” He trails off with a shrug. They don't really talk about their dad much. What's there to say? John was working, there was an accident, the explosion blew him a few others to smithereens, and Sam and Dean were suddenly orphans. It changed everything, but didn't seem to change much. Bobby's never been stingy with his booze, and John was probably the number-one recipient of that generosity. Ellen's always gotten more, sure, but it's for the bar—which John also visited on a daily basis. Dean spent more than one night dragging his dad to bed, cleaning up blood from drunken brawls, washing puke-stained clothes, or just worrying—wondering where John was, if he was still alive—until he could feel his mind physically fraying.

“You held onto it all this time?” Dean's surprised enough that Sam would've wanted to get a gift for their dad. Sam and John had a...complicated relationship. Complicated enough that it's highly unlikely that Sam would hold onto a gift like that out of sentimentality.

“I tried to give it back to Bobby, but he said to keep it, just in case. Just in case I found myself needing it one day. I didn't know what he meant, but...now I think I do.”

Dean's chest is constricting again and he wishes that he could wipe the pain and worry right out of Sam's big doe-eyes. He knows that it's his fault. He knows that Sam is worrying about  _ him _ , and no matter how guilty he feels, it's better than letting Sam run off to his death.  _ Anything _ is better than that. So he slips on the amulet and gives Sam one more crushing hug, because that's the most that he can do—because that's the only way that he knows how to reassure his little brother. That's the only way that he knows how to say goodbye. “Thanks, Sammy.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the doors opening, and that makes him hold on even tighter. “Thank you.”

Too soon. It's too soon for the Peacekeepers to be back—for them to drag Sam away—and Dean hates them. He hates them more than he's ever hated anyone. His short, sharp fingernails actually draw blood as they dig into the palm of his hand. The pain distracts him from the desire, the  _ drive _ , to tear into those white-suited bastards with his bare hands. But they have guns, and they have Sam, and he knows that they wouldn't hesitate for so much as a moment to kill both of them. It's his job to keep quit. It's his job to swallow down the lump in his throat and blink back the tears in his eyes and just stand there, still and silent.

Sam doesn't say goodbye. Dean understands. There's so much more that he would've liked to say.  _ Keep up the good work, Sammy. I'm proud of you. Do your best and don't sweat the small stuff. When you meet a pretty girl, don't be a pussy and go get her. Never let anyone tell you shit about what you can and can't do. Be happy. Don't miss me. I love you _ .

But the last words that he'll ever speak to Sammy are “thank you,” and that's fitting, he thinks. Sam's given him something to fight for—to live for  _ and _ to die for—and he should be thanked for that. The rest...well, things are hard enough for both of them, as it is. There's no reason for Dean to make it even worse. Besides, he's never been one to say that stuff out loud, and he doesn't have time to decide if that's something that he should fix. He's all out of time for fixing himself. He's going to be who he is until he dies, and that's okay. That's just fine and dandy.

“Hey, Dean.”

Dean's head snaps up. He didn't hear Garth come in, and that's concerning, since Garth isn't the stealthiest guy around. Letting his guard down like that is going to get him killed in a split second in the arena. Way to make things easy for everyone else.

“Hey, Garth.”

It's a lot easier for Dean to act normal, unaffected, when the worst that Garth gets is awkward. He's got some angst, somewhere deep down, but Garth doesn't know how to express it any better than Dean does. Maybe there's a little affection there, too—on both sides. People get extra sentimental when they realize that they'll never see each other again. Even so, Garth just stands there, scratching the back of his neck, and Dean feels more stable than he's felt since the morning.

“That was you, wasn't it? The salute?” Garth looks embarrassed, but he's also grinning—looking pretty damn pleased with himself, actually. He tries to hide it by ducking his head, but Dean doesn't miss the look, and that's all of the confirmation that he needs. “Why would you do something stupid like that?”

Head still ducked, Garth shrugs. “I thought you deserved it.”

That doesn't make any sense. Not even a little bit. “Why?”

“'Cause that was really brave of you, Dean. 'Cause I don't know anyone else who would do that. Who would do...this.”

And  _ that _ is something that Dean doesn't understand. It's something that can't be true, because who would let his little brother walk into the arena when he could do something to stop it? What kind of sick bastard would let someone like Sam—a defenseless kid—get ripped away from his chance at a life? At a full, happy, meaningful life? And it's a little selfish, too. Dean's selfish. Not brave, not a hero— _ selfish _ . Because he can't imagine life without Sam. Because Sam  _ is _ his life. And Dean would rather die than have to go on without him.

He rubs a hand across his eyes because he is  _ not _ going to tear up—not now. “Nah, Garth. I'm just doing what I gotta do. But...thanks. Thanks, dude.”

Neither of them knows what to do or say next; it's not like they've been prepared for this moment. Dean never knows what to say under pressure, and this is a particular kind of pressure, knowing that whatever he says next will be his last words to Garth. Sure, they aren't the closest, but Dean figures that they're friends—and, since Dean doesn't really have friends, that means something.

“You're gonna come back, right?” Garth's looking at him now, and Dean's finding it difficult to meet his gaze. “You're gonna win, and you're gonna come back.”

Dean's tired of lying; he's tired of saying what everyone needs him to say. But he knows that he's going to have to keep it up, because, soon, there are going to be cameras and interviews and evaluations. The whole country is going to be expecting him to say the right thing— _ just _ the right thing, and Dean's not sure that he'll know what that is. So he could use the practice, right? “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, I got a chance, right?” The cocky grin is a nice touch, he thinks. A nice embellishment that helps him sell it. “I be back before you know it.” Funny, it doesn't sound any more convincing the second time that he says it.

Seems to be enough for Garth, though. Garth, who's standing there with that muted little smile of his—who looks just as gawky as ever, and Dean likes it, because he can count on some things to never change. “We'll be waiting for you.”

That's almost enough to make Dean crack right then and there, but it's time for Garth to go, and that gives him some breathing space—a chance to regain his composure. Or, that's what he thinks. Dean didn't think that anyone else would come to see him, because there's no one left, but the door opens again and he is  _ not _ ready to face who walks in. He's clenching his fists again, and there might be fresh blood pooling around his fingernails, but it's impossible to tell because he can't look at anything but Ellen's tear-stained face.

Dean knew that he was going to have to face Sam one last time. He had a feeling that Garth was going to pop in for a final goodbye. But he never would have guessed that Ellen would come see him. Suddenly, he feels small—so small that he could just...vanish. He  _ wishes _ that he could vanish, because he doesn't know what to say to her.

_Sorry things turned out this way. Sorry you're going to have to watch your daughter being hunted on the big screen. Sorry I couldn't volunteer for her, too. Sorry you have no one else, because Bill died in the same explosion that took my dad. Just...sorry._

None of that seems fair, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Ellen watches him for a few moments, just as silent as he is—maybe because she doesn't know what to say, either, or maybe because she doesn't trust herself to open her mouth just yet. Dean knows that she's already said goodbye to Jo; aside from the fact that she would've been the first one admitted to Jo's room, he can read it all over her face. It isn't so strange that she would want to say goodbye to him, too, but with Jo's life on the line, he doesn't know why she would want to so much as look at him.

“That was real brave of you, kiddo.”

Dean doesn't know why, but that's the last straw. That's what breaks him. He slumps back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. When Garth stood there and told him that he was brave, he could take it, because Garth has always worshiped him. But now Ellen's standing there saying the same thing, and it means something different coming from her. Dean doesn't know what he expected her to say, but it wasn't  _ that _ . Ellen's always been great to him and Sam, but he assumed that she would resent him now. Even if, against all odds, he and Jo make it to the end, they can't both come back. Dean knows that he wouldn't be able to be so kind to anyone who stood between him and Sam—ever, no matter the circumstances.

So he finally loses the fight against the tears when Ellen sits down next to him and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this. Not from her. He's heard the whispers—the rumors that the explosion was his dad's fault. Even if he doesn't believe it, a lot of other people do. John was a drunk, and that made him accident-prone. Something tells him that Ellen believes it, but she's never treated them any differently. Not even once. Because that wasn't Dean's fault, and it certainly wasn't Sam's fault. But this is different. This is Dean. Not his dad. Dean.

When he forces himself to look up at her, he's positive that his eyes are puffy and red-rimmed, which makes him wish even more fiercely that he could disappear. But, although her expression is stony, her eyes are just as red, and she's squeezing his shoulder so  _ gently _ . “I sure as hell don't feel brave.” And he's all right with admitting it to Ellen because she understands, because she's not judging, because she would have volunteered for Jo in a second if she could have, and it wouldn't have been out of courage. It would've been out of desperation. Fear, even.

“But you are, Dean, and you've got to buck up and go out there with a big smile, because...” She falters, and her grip on Dean's shoulder goes from consoling to constricting. “They need to know how strong you are.”

“Ellen...”

Her eyes are glassy and she has to close them to hold the tears at bay, the muscles in her cheeks twitching as she clenches her jaw. “I know that it's not fair of me to ask for anything. Not from you. Not now. But, Dean, I need you to look out for her. She's my baby girl, and I need you to keep her safe. As much as you can. As long as you can.”

Dean pries Ellen's hand from his shoulder and holds it tightly in his own. “Hey.” Every last bit of him is trembling, but seeing someone like Ellen—someone so strong and capable—shattering in front of him puts things into perspective. He needs to be strong for Sam, for Ellen, for Jo, and maybe even for himself. “Hey, Ellen, look at me.” She does, and Dean chokes up for a second, silenced by the ever-present lump in his throat, but it's only for a second and then he finds that solid ground again. “I swear to you that I will do everything that I can to keep her safe.”

And it's not fair. It isn't, but Ellen is crushing him with her arms, and as his arms close around her shoulders in response, Dean knows that he could never deny her any peace of mind that he can offer. He also knows that he's going to make good on his promise, because even though Jo isn't Sam, she's as close to family as anyone else could get. Even if Ellen wasn't there, begging him for help, he would do everything in his power to keep Jo out of harm's way. If he can do anything— _ anything— _ to look out for Jo, he's going to do it. Without a thought. 

But it's likely that he won't be able to do much, and he knows it. Tributes from the same district are often split up early, unless they're careers. They'll probably be picked off before they can find each other. Dean knows that, even with the best intentions, his promises are empty.

There's always a chance, though. No matter what, there's always a chance, and he supposes that he should have a plan, just in case it comes down to him and Jo in the end. Because that's the one thing that he's hasn't planned for. It's the one thing that he hasn't even thought about. And he still can't think about it; he still can't plan. Not yet. Not with Ellen smiling at him and looking so damn  _ grateful _ . Not with shame rising like bile in his throat.

She cups his face with her hands before pressing a brief kiss to his forehead. “Be safe, kid. We'll all be keeping an eye on Sam.”

Those words ring in Dean's ears as he reunites with Jo and Bobby. He's still dodging Bobby's pointed stare, but he and Jo exchange a look, making sure that the other is all right, reminding each other to chin-up. They're herded into a car, and no one feels the need to disturb the brief ride with conversation. Even Crowley stays silent. He just sits there with a very nearly lascivious smirk, probably getting off on their discomfort and dread. Dean's always found him disgusting, but never more so than right now.

Making their way past the cameras on the way to the trains is surprisingly easy. The more people there are, the more they have to prove, the easier it is for Dean to hold his head high. He's not going to let them break him, and he's going to show them just how determined he is—just how strong he's going to be. Jo, bless her heart, is even better at it than Dean. She practically floats through the station, smiling and waving at the onlookers, looking springfresh and lovely in her yellow dress. Because he knows that the cameras will love it, and because he feels the need to reassure Jo that they're in this together, Dean throws an arm around her shoulders and tugs her against his side before kissing the top of her head. She looks startled, and if he's translating that spark in her eye correctly, she probably wants to punch him, but he squeezes her shoulder and winks, because the people watching are going to eat that shit up.

Maybe it's a little strategic, too. They're both thin, hungry, visibly weaker than a lot of the other tributes will be. District 12's tributes always are. Apart, neither of them poses much of a threat. Sure, Dean's got some muscles on him and Jo knows how to skin anything that moves, but, divided, they'll be greeted like fodder. Together, united, they'll look so much stronger. They'll look like a threat.

Plus, it's no secret that Jo has been harboring a massive crush on him for a long time. That's why she wants to hit him and why she's going to forgive him. His heart tightens as he wonders what she must be feeling right now—how difficult this must be for her, too. How much it pains her that they're in this together. And then he feels guilt sinking back onto his shoulders and crushing his ribcage, because even if it does comfort Jo to know that he's there supporting her, it must also be killing her. So he lets his arm slip from her shoulders and takes a step to the side, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets.

After stepping aboard the train, Dean isn't given any time to admire the shiny, sparkling clean interior. As soon as the doors close and the camera's blur, Crowley drags Jo away, babbling on about her private chambers and the lovely dresses that have been prepared and how fetching she'll look in them. Dean barely takes a step forward before being thrown back against the wall, Bobby's hands roughly gripping his jacket. It knocks the wind clear out of his lungs; Dean's getting really tired of that feeling.

“You need to look at me, boy.”

Dean does, and, wow, Bobby looks  _ tired _ . He looks rougher, more worn, than Dean has ever seen him. There are bags under his eyes and his breath reeks of alcohol. It's a familiar smell, but it never gets more pleasant. As soon as Dean levels with him, Bobby lets go and takes a step back, but he's still glowering. Dean figures that he deserves it; he's been doing a grade-A job of ignoring Bobby this whole time, and it isn't right. It isn't, but Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to say. He doesn't know a lot today, and that feeling—being at a complete loss—is driving him insane.

“Bobby, I—”

“Shut up.” There's no venom, no fire, in Bobby's voice. Mostly, he sounds exhausted—as much as he looks it. “What am I supposed to do with you, Dean?”

“Feeding me would be a start.” His smile falters after a split second, because Bobby's glare shoots him down; and that's okay, because it was fake, to begin with. Although, technically, he wasn't joking. There has to be food on the train and Dean is itching to stuff his face. If he's going to die in a few days, he might as well make the most of his remaining time, right?

“Jokin' ain't gonna make this go away, ya idjit.” Bobby sinks into a chair, and the anger's gone out of his eyes, replaced by a sadness so deep that Dean has to look away—has to avoid it. “I can't believe that I have to do this. I never thought that...”

“And ain't that just the way the cookie crumbles?”

Bobby's not amused. Neither is Dean. There's nothing amusing about the situation, but,  _ fuck _ , he's all out of tears and tender moments. The second that he stepped onto the platform in the train station, the game started, and Dean's going to play it. He's going to play it hard. Bobby has to understand that. Hell, he has to  _ appreciate _ it. Bobby won this thing once; even if it was a long time ago, he knows what it takes.

But as he continues to sit there in silence, it becomes more and more apparent that this is tearing him apart. And why wouldn't it? Bobby's close to Ellen; he was close to Bill, too. His two best friends died, and now he has to send their kids off into the arena. Honestly, Dean can't even begin to imagine what that must be like. It's got to be paralyzing. Crippling. Heartbreaking.

“Bobby, this is just... This is the only way that I know how to do this, okay?” Dean can be honest with Bobby, because Bobby doesn't need him to be strong. Bobby doesn't need him to put a positive spin on things. “I can't let it get to me. Because, if I do, it's gonna be too much. It's gonna be too fucking much.”

After another moment of silence, Bobby says, “I know.” He does. He knows better than anyone else, and he has to understand that Dean doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Dean can't open up that part of himself again, because if he lets even a little fear leak out, every negative feeling that he's holding back is going to come flooding out, and there won't be anything that he can do to stop it. “I know, kid. I'm just...sorry that you have to be here, in the first place.”

Dean takes a moment to look out of the train's window, and he can see the buildings of District 12 already fading into the distance behind them. “Huh. Never thought that it'd look so small.”

That's all that he can think to say. It won't be long before all that will be visible of the whole district is the trees. Dean's never stepped foot outside of the district. Almost no one that he knows has so much as seen the boundaries. There's the fence outside the Seam, sure, but nobody really sees the forest beyond as something truly  _ outside _ of the district. A few people go out to hunt and gather every now and then, despite it being illegal, but they never go far. Everyone knows better than to do something stupid like that.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder, and Dean turns to look at Bobby, because Bobby deserves that much. “We'll figure something out, Dean. We'll figure a way out of this mess.”

Dean smiles. They won't, but it's still a nice thing to say. It's still a nice thing to hope for. “Yeah, Bobby. Of course we will.” He gives Bobby a heavy pat on the back—probably a little more forcefully than he needed to, but it communicates what he wants to communicate. He's strong. He's okay. He's going to give this his all, because he wants nothing more than to see those buildings reappear. “But, first? Food.”

And that's enough to coax a smile out of Bobby, although he huffs and feigns annoyance. “You never change.”

Ain't that the truth.


	3. Chapter 3

Unsurprisingly, the food doesn't disappoint. Jo is eating slowly, either savoring the food or making an effort to keep herself from getting sick later, but Dean can't possibly care less about stuff like that at this point. All that he knows is that there's actual  _ food _ on the table in front of him. Food. The stuff that the mayor gets to eat. Probably way better than what the mayor gets to eat. And there's so much of it. Stew, beef steaks, salad, rolls, fruit, cheese, and— _ glory of glories— _ apple pie.

Dean's had pie exactly once in his life. It's a fuzzy memory, but it's one that he hangs on to as tightly as possible. About a week before his mom got sick, she brought an apple pie home from the baker's. She said that it was a special treat for her special boys—a congratulation from the baker on the new baby. It was too much, John said. Too generous. Didn't make sense. But Mary shushed him and met no resistance when she handed Dean a generous slice. Dean remembers exactly two details about that moment: the pie was so hot, so fresh, that it burned his fingers, and Mary's face was very pale.

Sometimes, he wonders what would've happened if they had discovered the illness sooner. Even just a few days sooner. It might've made a difference. The apothecaries would disagree, but Dean can't help but hold on to the possibility that maybe, just  _ maybe _ , they could have saved her. If he had spoken up. If he had said something.  _ Daddy, something's wrong with mommy _ .

But he didn't. He didn't, mommy died, daddy drank, and Sammy grew up without either of them. And without pie.

Dean stuffs another forkful in his mouth and lets his taste buds drown out his thoughts.

“You might want to slow down, there, son.”

“Or at least breathe between bites,” Jo adds. “You're going to suffocate before we get to the Capitol.”

“Ha, ha, very funny.” If a piece of crust lodges itself in Dean's throat, no one's the wiser. A good throat-clearing is all that it takes to get his windpipe back to working order. “You've barely eaten anything. Watching your figure?”

Jo kicks him in the shin and Dean grunts. If she keeps kicking like  _ that _ , she'll make it through the arena, no problem. He's pretty sure that he hears Bobby whisper “idjits” under his breath, and he actually feels his heart swell a bit at that. It's comforting to know that, even like this, even knowing that their time is limited, they can still maintain a certain level of normalcy. Could be denial, but Dean likes to think that it's because they have a bond—one that can't be broken by shitty circumstances.

“Well.” Dean jumps a little, surprised because he almost forgot that Crowley has been sitting at the foot of the table the whole time. The weird little man seems to be able to blend into the background when he wants to. It's unsettling. “Since no one felt the need to wash up before supper, might I suggest that you do so before bed? Washing... _dirt_ from the sheets is a very nasty business.”

“Then it must take ages to mop up your slime, huh?”

The response was automatic. Dean hardly takes in what came out of his mouth until a few seconds after the words have been lingering in the air. Jo looks like she's doing everything that she can to keep from bursting into laughter, while Bobby looks equal parts shocked and proud. Crowley looks almost  _ pleased _ , which takes all of the air out of Dean's sails.

“I do believe we've got ourselves a fighter this year, Singer.”

“Two of 'em.” There's only pride in Bobby's eyes now. “We've got two of 'em.”

As much as Dean wants to spite Crowley—he's never wanted to spite anyone more—he can't resist the pull of the shower. He's never taken a shower before; the second that the hot water hits his shoulders, he realizes how much he's been missing. He can feel the tension draining out of his too-taut muscles and he wishes that he could live in there. Dirt and remnants of coal dust circle the drain, blackening the water. That morning, he washed himself as thoroughly as he could, but armed only with a dirty sponge and a bucket of cold water, there was only so much that he could do. This is much better.  _ Much _ better.

After finally dragging himself away from the steamy comfort, Dean rummages through the chest of drawers in his room, not surprised to find a wide variety of clothing for both day and night. He feels a sudden rush of anger, because  _ this _ is how they live in the Capitol—apple pie, showers, more clothes than they can possibly wear. While they stuff themselves like pigs and stay warm and comfortable inside their climate-controlled houses, the people in District 12—and, likely, most of the other districts—starve and freeze and  _ die _ . Every day.

It does occur to him to protest, to stick with his own clothes, but he remembers that he has to play along. The game's on their terms, not his. If he wants to make it even a few days, he's got to be a good sport. For Sam. And he can do anything for Sam.

So he pulls on a pair of the least silky night pants that he can find and slips a T-shirt that smells distinctly of soap over his head. He's tired—exhausted, actually—but he's too jittery to sleep. It's ridiculous to think that, only this morning, he was home with Sam, eating a special reaping day breakfast. He'd give up all of the food and showers in the world to be back there right now. He'd give up anything.

A soft knock sounds at the door, and he opens it for a sniffling Jo. Her eyes are glassy and her voice is shaky. “Dean, I... Can I...”

“Yeah. Yeah, Jo.”

Jo sits at the foot of his bed, knees pulled up to her chest, and Dean sits down next to her. Her hair is wet, plastered to the back of her neck and soaking through her grey nightshirt. As much as Dean enjoyed his shower, he knows that it must've been even nicer for her to finally get all of that hair clean.

“Dean, can you promise me something?”

Dean's all out of promises, but Jo doesn't need to know that. She looks so small like that, curled up into a ball, soggy and shivering. She's only thirteen—same age as Sam. Dean forgets that sometimes. She's always been so outspoken. Stubborn, lively. Strong. Way too strong for her age. But that happens a lot in the Seam. Kids grow up too fast. Dean has never wanted that for Sam, but he can't do anything to stop it anymore. Sam's got to take care of himself now.

“'Course I can.”

“If you can win...do it.”

What she's asking couldn't be more obvious. Dean's made a lot of promises that he probably won't be able to keep, but this... This is something that he can't promise—not even without the intention to keep it. Not even to make her feel better. Because she's telling him that, if it comes down to the two of them, she wants him to win, and that's something that he can't hear.

“Sorry, kiddo. No can do.”

Jo looks irritated, but under that irritation is a desperation that's impossible to miss. “Why not?”

For a moment, Dean wonders if he should tell Jo the truth. Lying's gotten so easy—almost natural. But this is Jo and there isn't much of a reason to keep anything from her. Or maybe that's the exhaustion talking. “Because I already made a promise to your mom that I'm going to look out for you, and I don't like breaking my word.”

“My mom...” Jo swallows, eyes impossibly wide. “She... She went to see you? She made you promise that?”

“Hey, she didn't _make_ me promise anything.” It's true; nobody makes Dean do anything. Well, _almost_ nobody. Someone's sure as hell going to shove him in that arena and make him fight for his life, but that's still on his terms, right? He made the choice to volunteer. He'll make choices about who and when to kill. He can even choose to die if he wants to. And he has the right to decide that he will never, _ever_ hurt Jo. “She just asked me to look out for you. That's what moms do.”

Jo shakes her head, staring down at the floor as she hugs her knees even more tightly. “She shouldn't have done that. You've got enough to worry about.”

“Like you don't? Last I checked, we were in the same boat.”

“You know that's not true. You...” Jo trails off, brow furrowed, and Dean knows that she's trying to decide if she should continue or keep her mouth shut. She's chewing at her bottom lip so furiously that it's only a matter of time before she starts bleeding, and Dean doesn't need her bleeding all over the sheets. Not that he wouldn't like to stick it to the pricks who think that sleeping on silk is functional; it's just that he's honestly looking forward to having a clean bed for once, regardless of the reason why he has the option, in the first place. Can't blame a kid from the Seam for wanting a little comfort, right

He rests a hand on her shoulder—lightly, barely touching, but enough to remind her that he's there with her, and if she can't talk to him, who  _ can _ she talk to? And when she finally lifts her head, she looks at him like she's  _ apologizing _ . “You have Sam.”

“Sam's gonna be okay.” Dean's saying that more for himself than for Jo. He puts conviction behind his words because he has to be right. Sam's gonna be okay because Sam has to be okay. “And you have your mom. So we're even.”

Maybe they're not exactly even, but they're close enough. Ellen has nothing aside from her daughter, and that has to be clawing at the back of Jo's mind. They've both got people who need them. They're both under pressure. They're both falling apart, but Jo's doing so more visibly, and Dean figures that he can be strong enough for the both of them.

When Jo opens her mouth to talk again, Dean decides that he doesn't want to give her the chance, so he leans forward, far into her personal space, nose nearly bumping her cheek. Her breath hitches, and that almost— _ almost— _ makes him feel guilty about poking her sharply in the side, right in the spot that he knows is particularly sensitive. He made that discovery when she was seven and had a penchant for stepping on his toes to get his attention. One day, he grabbed her by the shoulders and poked her repeatedly; she squealed and thrashed until he hit that one spot, and then there was murder in her tiny little eyes. Sort of like the murder there now, but now is a lot more hilarious, for some reason.

Jo reels back and punches Dean square in the shoulder, and Dean would be surprised by how well she can punch if he didn't already know that she's deceptively strong. “Fuck you.”

“That's rude.”

“Fuck you _kindly_.” Jo's sugar-sweet smile sells it.

Dean can't help but grin as he nudges her shoulder with his elbow. “With that attitude, you won't have to worry about a thing.” He knows that, if he lets too much time pass before saying something else, Jo's going to slip right back into overthinking things, so he grabs the remote for the flatscreen television and hits the power button. A sharp glow fills the room as the machine whirs to life. “Why don't we check out the competition?”

It's not the best idea that he's ever had. Far from it. But he has to do  _ something _ , and there's not much else to do. Besides, if he can get Jo's attention off of him and onto other people, she'll be more focused, and that's what they both need. Their personal troubles can wait. Right now, they need to prepare themselves for the unthinkable. Even if they don't make it to the end, Dean'll be damned if they go out first. Jo might not want to strategize; Dean doesn't really  _ want _ to, either, but they don't have much of a choice.

So they sit—Dean scooting back against the headboard and Jo still sticking to her corner of the bed—and watch the recordings of the other districts' reapings. Dean keeps an eye out for anything that might be revealing or out of the ordinary, but everything seems pretty much the same as every other year. There are the usual suspects from Districts 1 and 2. Shiny, a little plump, and all smiles from District 1—although the male tribute is a little shorter than usual and has a goofy grin that would make him seem pretty harmless if he wasn't a career. The tributes from District 2 look just as vicious as ever; they're lean and pointy-faced and look like it would be their absolute pleasure to rip out someone's guts with their bare hands.

District 4's offered up a little kid—hell, he can't be older than twelve—and a blonde girl who couldn't look more terrified if she tried. There's a smoking hot redhead from District 10 paired up with a droopy-eyed, likely older guy with almost impossibly perfect posture. Dean wouldn't usually notice, but it seriously looks like the guy's got a board in his back. District 11's got an unusually shrewd-looking male tribute, who looks out of place standing next to his kind-faced, curly-haired, highly attractive fellow tribute. Dean doesn't even want to start thinking about what those beautiful women are going to look like in a few days' time. He doesn't want to start thinking about what  _ he's _ going to look like in a few days' time.

When they finally begin drifting off, lulled by the glow of the screen and the murmuring drone of the looping footage, Dean lightly runs his fingers through Jo's hair. She's curled up next to his legs, almost like a cat—although her snoring is absolutely  _ nothing _ like a cat. Who knew that such a loud, abrasive sound could come out of such a small slip of a thing?

Dean falls asleep thinking of cats and redheads and apple pie.

—

When he sits down at the table for breakfast, Dean can't hold back a groan. The food smells fantastic—probably even better than dinner last night—but he ate far too much far too quickly, and now his body is protesting. Violently. After years of barely eating anything, it makes sense that such rich food would settle like a freaking rock in his stomach. He barely managed to keep everything inside  _ inside _ when he dragged himself to the shower and threw on some clean clothes. Now, though, with the scent of scrambled eggs and pastries directly attacking his insides, he's not so sure that he's going to win the war.

Jo doesn't even try to conceal her smirk and Dean would kick her under the table if he wasn't so adverse to kicking girls. Even though she didn't get much sleep last night, she looks refreshed and alert. And that's just annoying.

Now she's smearing some kind of jam on a piece of painfully aromatic toast, and she makes an appreciative sound as she sinks her teeth into it—smacking her lips like it's the most delicious thing that she's ever tasted in her life. It's probably not far from the truth, but she's doing it on  _ purpose _ and Dean's starting to rethink his policy on striking women.

“Rough night?” Bobby's eating what looks like the best bacon in the world, but at least he's not _flaunting_ it. Doesn't stop Dean's stomach from flip-flopping again, though.

“Yeah, well, unless I was hallucinating, there was something blonde and scrawny in my bed keeping me from getting a good night's sleep.”

Bobby's eyebrows shoot up and Jo's mouth falls open. Dean might not be able to kick her in the shin, but he can at least catch her off-guard. It's good enough for the moment.

“I-it wasn't like that!” Jo sputters, red-faced. “It wasn't.” She looks a little betrayed—just a little—but it's only Bobby, and there's no reason to keep anything from him. That doesn't stop her from glaring daggers through Dean's skull, but, hey, it was worth it.

In fact, he feels good enough to reach for a breakfast roll. If he eats slowly, he might be able to keep it down.

Bobby shakes his head. “I'm gettin' too old for this.” But there's fondness in his tone, and if Dean's not mistaken, Bobby seems pleased by the fact that they haven't completely lost their spirit. It's a struggle, but, for the time being, they have each other, so why not joke around?

Dean pops a chunk of the roll into his mouth and chews lazily. “I hope you're not too old to give us some pointers. That's what you mentor guys do, right?”

“That's what we're supposed to do, yeah.”

During the slightly uncomfortable silence that follows, Dean wonders of Bobby ever had any handups with giving advice to the previous tributes. The whole thing is more than a little surreal. They're sitting in a train that's shooting off like a bullet toward the Capitol, a place that they would  _ never _ usually visit—a place that most people have only ever seen on television. They're cleaner than they've ever been in their lives, dressed in clothes that would cost more than they would make in a few months, eating food that would cost more than they would make in their lives. And they're eating so  _ much _ of it that Dean finds himself disgusted—and not just because of his inability to digest all of it.

He has no illusions about what's going on. They're being fattened up for the slaughterhouse. The Capitol wants them to look fat and happy before sending them off to tear each other into fat, happy ribbons. Bobby can't be too enthusiastic about helping because he knows what that help means. He knows better than anyone.

And that's why they need him more than ever.

“Goes without sayin' that you don't wanna eat too much here. It's fine the first day or two, but you're not gonna be eatin' like this in the area. You might not be eatin' at all. Lucky for us, you're used to that.”

Jo shoots Dean a smug look because she's just that kind of brat and Dean chooses to ignore it because he's obviously the bigger person. It's true, though. If anyone's used to going days without food, it's the two of them. Nobody from District 12 trains for the Games, and the lack of food turns into a lack of strength that puts them at an immediate disadvantage, but Dean views it as preconditioning. Might as well look on the bright side.

“And Dean.” Bobby's looking stern now, and Dean knows that means nothing good. “No matter what happens, no matter _what_ anybody says, if you've got nothin' nice to say, don't say anything at all. Do you understand?”

“Translation for the mentor-speak?”

“Don't be a smartass, smartass.”

Dean grins and swallows the rest of the roll. “Yes, sir.”

He knows what Bobby's trying to tell him. He has to be likable. He has to smile and wave for the cameras and bullshit his way through interviews. Otherwise, nobody's going to cheer for him. Dean's not stupid. He understands this crap. Jo does, too. The game started the moment they were reaped. What they do now is just as important to their survival as what they do in the arena—just less urgent. And with fewer knives.

“Well, well, well. Bony, bonier, and...drunkest.” Crowley slips into an armchair near the table, propping his feet up on a coffee table. “Up bright and early, I see.”

It's almost funny to watch Bobby and Jo's eyes narrow simultaneously. Crowley ignores them entirely and pours himself a glass of something amber-colored that likely has a staggeringly high alcohol content. Now that Dean thinks about it, it's rare to see Crowley without a glass of some kind of booze or another. He probably thinks that he's some kind of connoisseur or something, but Dean's positive that he's just a pompous ass.

“Looks like you're the only one drinking,” Jo retorts. Someone with less balls—'cause, chick or not, Jo's got some serious balls—might shrink away from the stare that Crowley levels at her, but she stares right back, not giving an inch. She's her mother's daughter, that girl.

The natural resting state of Crowley's face must be smugness incarnate, because Dean can't remember seeing him looking unsettled or even displeased at any of the reapings or other televised events. But, for split second, there was a flicker of  _ something _ that passed over his face. Jo must've ruffled his feathers a bit. The urge to pat her on the back and congratulate her suddenly overshadows his desire to take out her kneecaps.

After that split second, though, Crowley's back to his resting state. “I've got nothing to prove, princess. Unlike your boy over there. Not the best track-record, eh, Singer?”

“This ain't about track-records or proving some kind of point, Crowley.”

“Of course it isn't. This time, it's personal—which makes it _so_ much more interesting.” Crowley's flippancy makes Dean bristle, but he shouldn't expect anything less from a Capitol douchebag. The Games are nothing more than sport to them. Entertainment. “So I figure I'll sit back and enjoy the show.”

Bobby rolls his eyes and gives Dean the impression that this isn't an uncommon thing. It didn't really hit Dean before now that the two of them go through the same routine every year. Take the tributes to the Capitol, try to give the tributes advice, then watch the tributes die. Year after year after year. While it's worn on Bobby, it's probably bored Crowley to tears. Nearly, anyway. Dean finds it hard to believe that Crowley would ever cry. Does he even possess tear ducts like a normal human?

“Might as well get used to it,” Bobby mutters. “He's a real ray of sunshine.”

“And you're a bonafide saint, Singer.”

Jo nearly hits the ceiling as everything goes dark. There are still a few dim lights shining in the car, so Dean can see Jo gripping the edge of the table so hard that her knuckles have to be turning white; he can also see Crowley's eyes glinting in the semi-dark, and it's not doing anything to make the guy seem more human. Dean figures that they've hit the mountain tunnels. Everyone knows that they're the only way into the Capitol, but knowing that didn't make the sudden day-to-night transition any less surprising.

“Almost there.” Bobby squints at Jo, whose eyes are still darting around the car like she's expecting something to jump out of the shadows. “You okay, kid?”

“Y-yeah.” Jo swallows hard and sinks a little lower in her chair. “Just. Don't like tunnels.”

There's a sharp pain in Dean's chest at that. Jo's mentioned her hatred of tunnels once before. They remind her of mineshafts, and it's a pretty logical correlation. Losing his dad was hard, but Jo took her dad's death even harder. Bill was a good guy—a good husband and a good father. Dean remembers a time when John was like that, too, but it was so long ago. When the explosion happened, Dean already had been taking care of the family for years. Dean doesn't blame him. He doesn't. But he does wish that things could have been different.

She doesn't stop holding her breath until they finally pull out of the tunnel, and then her sigh of relief is audible. Dean blinks against the sunlight that floods back into the car; it takes a good minute or two before his eyes can focus on the scenery. The pull to the window is practically magnetic and Dean doesn't bother resisting it. Jo isn't far behind, and Bobby joins them, too, even though he's been here plenty of times already.

Sure, he's seen the Capitol on TV before, but that was nothing compared to seeing it in person. It's...kind of breathtaking, actually. Everything seems to sparkle and he's never seen so many bright colors in one place at one time. The pinks and blues and yellows are almost more blinding than the sunlight. Judging by the people that come into focus as they draw closer to the station, it's probably illegal in the Capitol to wear fewer than four different colors at any given time. Dean can't claim to be a fashion expert, but he's pretty certain that some shades of green and pink shouldn't go together—and also that nobody's skin should be dark blue. It's a freak show, but everyone's going to be staring at him and Jo like  _ they're _ the freaks. With their blonde and brown hair and pale skin that shows too many bones, they're the odd ones out.

“Well.” Bobby pats Dean on the shoulder and gives Jo an affectionate nudge. “We've reached 'civilization.' It's your show, now, kids.”

People are pointing and staring now; Dean's sure that his smile shows more nervousness than it should. He grabs for Jo's hand, and she doesn't seem upset by it this time. In fact, she seems almost grateful. Together, they smile and wave at the strange people in the strange city who seem so happy to see them. It's stupid. A little cruel. The two of them will be treated like celebrities for a little while, and those people will view it as some kind of favor. One long last meal.

The train pulls into the station, crowd disappearing from sight, and Dean gives Jo's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go. He turns, and Crowley is less than a foot away—far too close for comfort—with a toothy grin that might be agreeable on a friendlier face.

“Welcome to the Capitol, loves. Time to make you two presentable.”


End file.
